Burros on Main Street
Over the pass, an old mining town where burros own the street, wind chimes turn in the shade and every door has a story.
Over the pass the road drops into an old mining town, and the first thing you notice is who owns the street. Burros — descendants of the ones the miners left behind — stroll between the cars and stop wherever they like.
Under the wooden walkways the shade is deep, and the shops are full of things that catch the light: wind chimes, spinning metal, old highway shields nailed up by the dozen.
Painted walls tell the town's own story — gold, mines, a government order that closed them — in big hand-lettered words, with an ice-cream parlour and a wagon wheel for company.
A painted rocking horse waited outside a window, and a burro standing next to a chalkboard looked like it had been hired to welcome people.
Look up and the town climbs the hillside — an A-frame perched on the rocks, shacks patched with tin, the whole place holding on by habit.
Every corner has a door with a story behind it: horns on the wall, horseshoes on the ground, bunting faded to pink by too many summers.
On the way out, a small herd stood in the middle of the road and showed no interest in moving. We waited. Here, that is simply how traffic works.
